Fallout: Land Of Lost Souls
by Anticleides
Summary: "When god said the meek would inherit the earth, he must not have predicted a nuclear apocalypse. Because the meek had sure as hell not inherited this earth" Join a man with no name as he wanders the wasteland and comes face to face with its horrors**
1. Dead Mans Gun

FALLOUT

LAND OF LOST SOULS

**Chapter One - **_**Oh Mexico**_

_Oh Mexico, It sounds so simple I just want to go, the sun so hot I forgot to go home, guess Ill have to go now…_

_Oh Mexico It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low, the moon so bright like a light up the night, think everything all right…_

_Oh down in Mexico, I've never really been so I don't really know, guess ill have to go…_

_Whoa Mexico, I've never really been but Id sure like to go Oh Mexico, guess Ill have to go…_

The wasteland…a desolate landscape of barrenness and destruction. Even without the mutated wildlife trying to kill you, powder gangers, raiders and other sorts of scum and villainy roamed the wasteland looking for unfortunate souls to wreak pain and death on.

When god said the meek would inherit the earth, he must not have predicted a nuclear apocalypse. Because the meek had sure as hell not inherited this earth. Unless you considered the few Vaults that were scattered around the wasteland…but even those were few and far between now.

If a man that was still alive in the wasteland now it wasn't by accident. Either he had very powerful friends or he was smart. And sometimes even smart didn't compensate for deadly. You needed a certain streak of viciousness to survive. It all came down were you willing to kill to survive…your life or theirs.

In the midday heat stood two men facing each other in the middle of the desert. They stood still surveying each other, hands near the guns on their hips. The sun was high in the sky heat beating down on the desert below. Sweat poured from their faces and soaked their clothes. Each was waiting for the other to move, one would have to eventually.

Talking was out of the question, one of them would die. The desert sapped your strength and drained your body. Each had a meager supply of water, and both needed the others supply to hope to live another day. Therefore only one would walk away with his life.

The man on the left was a dark haired youth, he wore faded jeans and a torn T-shirt. A rusted pistol was tucked in his waist band and his hand twitched near it. He was post apocalypse born Mexican ,and death and suffering was all he knew. He was thirsty and tired, but he would not die, he was the fastest…the toughest wastelander he knew.

The dark haired youth snapped for his pistol, hands a blur. A shot rang out and he heard his gun clatter to the floor. It couldn't be, he was the best, he was the fastest. But he was not fast enough, for the stranger on the right was faster. Dropping to the ground he breathed his last breath, and died in the middle of the desert. He felt blissful oblivion, his pain was gone, and he was going home…his true home.

But the man on the right was left to suffer in the wasteland, till he was fortunate enough to meet his maker. He was a _"gringo"_ a white man. He stood tall amidst the barrenness around him. The wasteland had beaten him physically, but it had not yet cowed his pride.

He wore a tattered pair of blue jeans and a dirty long sleeve work shirt. A ragged brown cowboy hat topped his head, and he wore a pair of boots held together with duct tape. A tooled leather belt served as a makeshift holster for his beat up revolver. Light brown hair was visible underneath his cowboy hat, and cold blue eyes looked upon the kid he had just killed.

He felt no pity for the young man, it could have easily been him laying in a pool of his own blood. He merely kneeled down and started going through his belongings. He picked up the gun and examined it, it was a rusting 9mm pistol. He picked it up and pulled the trigger. A loud "click" resounded and he tossed it away, broken firing pin…useless. The poor kid probably didn't know it.

The kid had a few bottles of water, and some canned food. Stowing it in his small backpack he continued on the way he had previously been walking, leaving another lone wanderer who has met his death on the endless path of lost souls.

**Chapter 1.5 - **_**A Dead Mans Gun **_

_Your hands upon…a dead mans gun, and your looking down the sights_

_Your heart it worn, and the seems are torn…and they've given you a reason to fight._

His bones hurt from carrying himself across miles of destruction, his muscles ached from malnourishment and brutal use, his lungs cried out from the amount of contaminated gas and air they've been forced to breathe. His eyes were bloodshot from constant strain of looking for danger, and shelter. His skin bore marks of countless wounds and old scars that told stories he would never tell.

_And your not gonna take what they've got to give._

_And your not gonna let them take your will to live._

How he got to Mexico was a story that took more than a day to tell. The fact was though was that he had seen enough death and destruction in this country to last a lifetime. He had planned to travel back to America to find someplace to live out the rest of his diminished life in peace. But the journey had not gone as planned, he had left more bodies in his path to peace, than he could count.

_Because they've taken enough, and you've given them all you can give…and luck wont save them tonight._

_They've given you a reason to fight._

He had no name, the wasteland had stripped him of that. He was now called a killer to some, drifter to most. Once upon a time he had a name…Clayton Miller, but it had been so long since anyone had ever called him that. Now he was a drifter, wanderer, killer, wastelander, but then again so was everyone else. Times were tough, and men got tougher or they died.

_And all the storms you've been chasing._

_About to come down tonight._

He was vault born evidence of the Pip-Boy strapped to his wrist. The damned things were supposed to be impossible to break, but true enough the screen on his remained black and a large crack ran through the center. He left the vault when he was young, well left is a polite word, but that was another long story for a different day. He had no family, they were dead or long forgotten, much like himself.

_And all the pain you've been facing, about to come into the light._

_They've given you a reason to fight._

Clayton Miller, wanderer, drifter, the man with no name. He would continue his path, or die trying. If he made it, good. If he died, hopefully it would be quick, then he could leave his pain and suffering to vanish along with his body. If he did make it, he would finally tell his story…to all who would take the time and hear it.

_They've given you a reason to fight…_

**Authors Note - I have loved playing the Fallout franchise, and this is my first time writing a story about it. I've tried to write a unique take on the Fallout story, not just another straight up Courier story pattern. I am trying to make my "man with no name" similar to Clint Eastwood's Lone Drifter as seen in the Sergio Leone movies such as **_**A Fistful Of Dollars**_**, **_For__**A Few Dollars More**_**, and **_**The Good The Bad And The Ugly. **_**Now I have to find a "Tuco" and "Angel Eyes", If my fellow western fans get my drift. If fellow writer/reader reviews indicate an interest in the story, I would like to write a prologue, and epilogue to **_**The Land Of Lost Souls **_**story, I will try to not make it strictly Fallout in the sense of weapons and plot, but help from veteran fallout writers is always welcome.**

**Thanks For Reading - Anticleides **


	2. A Fistful Of Dollars

**Chapter 2 - **_**A Fistful of dollars**_

The sun beat down upon the desert sending heat waves radiating from the ground, bending the scenery in the distance. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his shirt. His water supply was long since gone. You could only travel during the day, the nightstalkers and Cazadores owned the night.

Crunching an empty water bottle to get the last few drops upon his face. He had walked around long enough in the desert to acquire a dark complexion, but prolonged exposure still left him ,burnt and red. Squinting to look ahead he could make out the dark silhouettes of a town in the distance.

Quickening his pace to a brisk walk he checked his revolver. The old Colt had served him well over the years…along with the man it had served before him. The revolver was an engineering marvel. Not as flashy as a semi-automatic, but it never jammed and could go to hell and back before it broke. He checked the cylinder, three 45. Long Colt cartridges glinted dimly in the sun. Down to no water, a few cans of food and three bullets. If only his family could see him now. Clayton Miller had certainly made it in the big time.

Another half hour of staggered walking brought him within earshot of the town. Screams were echoed by raucous laughter. Through a pair of large wooden doors the town resembled an old monastery, a large church style building set in the middle, and smaller houses flanked it across each side. A bell rang and he looked up to see a crumbling bell tower. A bell tolled and a shopping cart came rolling out of the doors. A man lay slumped inside the cart. Turning as the man rolled passed a him "Adios Amigo" was written on a piece of paper taped to his back.

Tipping his hat to the man Clay's attention was drawn to a laughing ghoul in the bell tower. Wearing sack pants and shirt the ghoul looked him over " Hello amigo, if you value your life turn back now…only death and villainy reside in this town"

"Ill take my chances, and you are?" His hand hovered over his revolver.

"I am the bell keeper, every time a poor soul is lost I ring the bell, turn back now or you will be the next soul that dies in this wretched place" The bell keeper smiled

"I'm just passing through" Clay continued walking through the doors.

The bell keeper cackled maniacally "Stay or go, the bell will continue to ring no matter what your choice".

The drifter continued to walk into the street and was greeted by a new sight. On the right side of the street flapped an NCR flag. On the left waving lazily was a flag reminiscent of the old bandito gangs of Mexico, a skull and pistol affair NCR troopers stood near their flag, while men dressed in a patchwork of bullets leathers and sombreros stood at the opposite end.

The banditos laid eyes on the drifter and started walking towards him. "Hey boy don't you move a muscle!" There was three of them, two were Mexican and the man in the middle who yelled was a gringo. Turning to face the men Clay stood his ground, "You boys need something".

"Si we need our rent for staying in our fine town" One of the bandits smiled through cracked yellow teeth.

"I'm just passing through I'm afraid" Clay's hands lay at his side.

"That's too bad, because you stepped in it, and now you pay the fee" The white man eyed the revolver on the drifters hips. "That there revolver will do it"

The men were heavily armed, gun belts and bandoliers of ammo hung on them. All had rusted pistols and a rifles slung across their back. Clay shook his head "Cant do it"

"Then you will die…say your prayers hefe" The men's hands itched towards their guns.

"Both thorn and thistles it should bring forth, for us. For out of the ground we were taken for the dust we are, and to the dust we shall return." One of the Bandits looked at him, smile gone as his words echoed inside their heads. Before they could draw the drifter snapped his gun out and fanned the hammer. One, two, three shots rang out and they dropped to the earth.

Walking towards the bodies one bandit gasped and sputtered as he tried to get back to his feet. The other two lay dead, blood pooling onto the dirt. Unhooking the pistol belt, and the bandolier of the white man, he loaded his revolver with six cartridges from the pistol belt. "May you find peace" firing once more he ended the suffering of the wounded bandito.

Looking back on the men he just killed, he started off walking to the NCR flag.

_Three bells rang out behind him. _

_**Authors Note: Hope I didn't get to wild westy**_

_**Thanks for reading - Anticleides**_


End file.
